


we should just kiss like real people do

by madamemasque



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: F/M, yousef character study, yousef is angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 06:29:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10985295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamemasque/pseuds/madamemasque
Summary: Sana moves towards him, pressing the glass into his hands and for a moment their fingers brush against each other and suddenly Yousef is back in Turkey and the sweltering heat and his shirt is soaked and stuck to his chest and there is no respite from the sun in sight but Sana’s smile is as sweet as the shade from the old poplar tree in his grandparents’ yard.





	we should just kiss like real people do

The party oddly makes Yousef recall his family’s summer trip to Turkey. It’s an odd avenue to turn down, and he tries not to dwell on it much; it’s not like the trip was an unpleasant memory. It’d been the first time in six months he’d seen his mother completely relaxed, the first time in three years he’d hugged his grandmother, the first time in his life he’d held his baby cousin. And he’s already forgotten the way his grandfather smelled of peppermint and freshly washed laundry and the odd Turkish song his cousins tried to translate for him at a party not too different from this one, but in his mind’s eye, he still flashes upon that kind of peace that can only be felt when surrounded by a family who loves you. He hadn’t realized that he would miss Turkey–traveling with his parents back to the homeland was something he usually viewed as a chore, an inconvenience that would necessitate him missing out on whatever shenanigans his friends got into in his absence. But this time had been different. Yousef shakes his head and chalks it up to age.

“You should be having fun,” he reminds himself, none too gently, because he really should be. He should be dancing in the living room with the rest of the group, singing off-key to whatever English song was pounding through the speakers loud enough that he could feel his rib cage shuddering. But the smog of cigarette smoke and weed and gyrating bodies is giving him a headache and as he seeks refuge in the brightly lit kitchen of whoever’s home this happens to be, he wonders what has happened to him. He used to love parties–though he displayed more self-restraint than Mutasim and Adam, who got hammered within the first hour and a half–used to love dancing with strangers. But nowadays the music doesn’t inspire him to dance; it exhausts him. And the syllables of the new names he learns sit foreign on his tongue, more alien than alluring. He chalks that one up to age too, mostly because he can’t think of a better alternative.

He drains the last of the water in his glass and puts it on the counter, but then decides to stall a little more before going back out so he washes the glass and dries it.

“You come to parties to do the dishes?”

Yousef whirls around to see Sana leaning on the kitchen wall, holding her own glass of water. He’s surprised–her stoic demeanor around his friends usually makes it seem as though she would rather be anywhere else in the world. And he knows how averse she was to her own group starting to mingle with his. But today, she’s more relaxed and the smile on her face is easier. She hasn’t initiated a conversation with him since they were children.

Yousef is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Yeah, well, someone has to do it.” He grins and he knows it’s lopsided and crooked, unlike her own. Nothing about him is as put together as she is.

“Then you don’t mind washing mine, I’m sure.” Sana moves towards him, pressing the glass into his hands and for a moment their fingers brush against each other and suddenly Yousef is back in Turkey and the sweltering heat and his shirt is soaked and stuck to his chest and there is no respite from the sun in sight but Sana’s smile is as sweet as the shade from the old poplar tree in his grandparents’ yard. And he wonders whether it would be considered inappropriate for him to grasp her whole hand within his own and press it to his forehead because surely there’s not a single ailment this girl’s touch can’t cure.

But it is inappropriate and evidently, the entire universe thinks it so, because Sana’s phone rings and her body stiffens as she presses it to her ear, Yousef’s hand falling limply to his side as she turns and heads out of the kitchen.

He’s always watching her walk away from him.

* * *

Yousef leaves the party early that night. The boys will pester him about it tomorrow, but the heat is too much for him and his head is pounding and all he wants to do is go home to sleep.

He should stop thinking about Sana. Yes, that’s a start.

But if that’s the start then he fears this will never end because he can’t recall a time in the past few weeks that he hasn’t been thinking of Sana. Her dark eyes, narrowing mischievously as she crosses Elias to make a basket behind his back. Her small hands tightened around the bus rail to hold herself steady as she flashes a shy smile at him. Her dimples betraying her usually aloof facade as she tries not to smile at some stupid joke Adam makes. Her lips painted deep maroon and berry purple forming the shape of his name; the timbre of her voice and the steel in her gaze and…

Yousef should really stop thinking about Sana.

There are rules. It doesn’t matter what he feels or how deeply he feels it or whether she reciprocates, Sana is Elias’ little sister and though Yousef is allowed to, and even encouraged to care about her, he is most definitely not allowed to think about her like this.

Elias is his best friend and Yousef has worked too hard and suffered too much heartache to be making mistakes that would cost him another friend.

But he’s young and foolish so he dreams of the future he sees in her eyes.

* * *

Yousef sends Sana a friend request on Facebook and because he’s an idiot, he sends her an outdated meme too. It is innocent.

(the way his heart lurches when he sees she’s accepted his request is less innocent, but he doesn’t think about that as much)

Elias and Adam decide they want to play a silly game of SMS Roulette because they can’t be bothered to actually deal with life. They gather on Elias’ couch and it’s a mess of legs and arms and hands and dirty jokes but Yousef finds comfort in the presence of his friends, the happy, lively sounds they make. He almost cracks a rib laughing at Adam’s utterly failed conquest and the healthy ache in his stomach distracts him from the oddity his life has become in the last few weeks.

But then the question is given to Mikael.

And he brings up Even.

And the temperature in the room drops a few degrees as if they’ve been graced by the presence of some dearly departed spirit.

(maybe they have)

“It’s nothing,” Mikael brushes it off but he nonetheless excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Mutasim tries to follow but Elias pushes him back down. Mutasim tries to argue, but Elias silences him with a glare.

And Yousef can’t move.

It is as though a deathly cold has invaded his body and he feels Adam’s breath on his shoulder and Mutasim’s grip on his hand but all he can hear is the sobs that had racked Even’s body as Yousef held him months ago. He remembers the scene perfectly and it’s a cruel joke isn’t it–the things you’d rather forget are the ones that your mind will never let you. Even had kept saying _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ and Yousef had held onto him and told him it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t his fault, _it’s not your fault that you love him in every way but the right one_. Yousef’s shirt was soaked through by the time Even cried himself to sleep.

“Are you alright buddy?” Yousef dimly hears Adam ask in his ear, and it’s all Yousef can do to nod and touch his hands to the other boy’s. Adam pulls away but leaves his hand.

Yousef is glad to have that small comfort.

* * *

Elias edits out the parts where they bring up Even. Yousef doesn’t stay to help him or clean up.

Instead, he walks home, the brisk wind chipping at his nose as he stares at the stars in the sky above. There was a time when Yousef would’ve prayed at this time, would’ve praised Allah for His creation, His grandeur, His grace but he feels harder now. Less forgiving.

How can he worship the very thing that drove his best friend to suicide?

And in his mind, Yousef knows that he is not being fair, that there is far more to the concept of love as it is addressed in the Quran than the black and white truth he sees is as but every time he tries to pray, he is reminded of the deep pit in Even’s eyes as he looked at his car windshield, not through it. And he just can’t.

But he misses it, the peace of it, the connectedness to all the other souls in the world who believed in the same things he did. The feeling that he is part of something bigger than himself.

His phone buzzes in his pocket– _message from Sana Bakkoush_. Yousef closes his eyes. He wants to ignore the message, wants to stop leading them both down this path that will only end in heartbreak.

But he’s young and foolish, so he types the words _alt for deg, girl_ without even thinking as if his heart knows the confession logic won’t let him make.

* * *

It finally becomes too much when she optimistically assures him that her parents will still think he’s a good Muslim even if he drinks. And even though the truth lightens the load on his chest a bit, he knows that something has changed between them.

She doesn’t respond to his first text or his second or his third or fourth. And then she unfriends him on Facebook and it feels like a slap in the face, even though it shouldn’t because this should feel like a relief.

He was living a lie, not telling her about his beliefs when he knew how devout she was. It’s better now that everything is out in the open. People like them are just not meant to be together. They can still be friends.

It’s what he tells himself when he flinches after seeing the notification.

* * *

He forgets sometimes that he’s known Sana for just as long as he’s known Elias. Sometimes it feels like she’s an aloof stranger, with her all-knowing smirks and patronizing half-grins and her haughty _even Mama can play better than you, Elias_ ; she is unknowable, his best friend’s serious little sister.

There are other times, though, when he remembers the little girl she used to be. He remembers he used to find her a bit annoying, mostly because she would always whoop his ass at basketball and smile arrogantly down at him while Elias laughed from the side. When they were smaller, Sana was a staple part of the boys’ group.

Much has changed.

But much has also remained.

She is just as straightforward now as she used to be. She asks him without hesitation or judgment, “Why don’t you believe in Allah?” And as he stutters and stumbles through his explanation, she listens. Listens to him bare his soul to her, his pain and tries to understand him.  

And he wants so badly to revel in her eloquence about the peace her faith brings her because it is the same peace he used to know, but that part of him doesn’t see things the same way anymore. He only sees the cold hospital room and Even lying in a bed with too many corners, machines helping him breathe.

He asks her why religion divides society so much when it is meant to find peace. She doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t expect her to.

He walks her home and in his heart, it feels like a blossoming something, the way he supposes it must feel after the first date with the person who ends up being your soulmate. If they were different people, he supposes he would’ve kissed her on the steps to her house. She smiles at him, the lines of her nose and mouth softened by the lamplight, and he allows himself the luxury of believing that she would’ve kissed him back. And it would’ve been childish and sloppy and they would’ve pulled away blushing, but it would’ve been something.

And he wants so badly to tell her, but then her mother is calling her name and Sana is turning away from him yet again. He watches her walk away. He’s always watching her walk away.

It doesn’t occur to him until he is at home, staring at the ceiling in his room, that maybe he shouldn’t tell her what he wants.

The things he wants are wicked and broken things to want.

* * *

Even looks good tonight. He’s happy and smiling and content. He’s such a far cry from the broken boy Yousef had last seen that he almost doesn’t recognize Even at the karaoke bar. But he’s still Even. Tall and blond and angular with the same eyes that are looking at him with fear and uncertainty.

Yousef hates that the boy who used to be his best friend in the whole world looks at him like he’s bracing himself for a punch. And he knows this is not his doing, that the events that unfolded between Even and Mikael were not his fault, that he had been the only one of the group to try and console Even after the fight, but in this moment Yousef hates himself. And he knows that he’s not a Muslim anymore and that he doesn’t believe in Allah, but he sends a makeshift prayer to any deity that is listening to please, please make sure that nothing bad happens tonight.

Perhaps he just doesn’t know to pray anymore, because exactly what he feared would happen, happens. He doesn’t know who throws the first punch, but within moments they are all fighting. Except for Even and Yousef. Even is frozen, but when his eyes meet Yousef’s, they are pleading him to please make this stop. And the pain in Even’s eyes is too much for him to stomach so he stumbles inside the bar, seeking out the only person he knows will make things better.

Sana.

He tells her about the fight and she looks at him with fear in her eyes, but steel also. She gathers herself and rushes out, her shirt snapping behind her. Yousef can’t follow her. He’s too scared of what he’ll find out there.

She is so strong. He wonders if she realizes.

“Are you alright, Yousef?” He looks up, dazed. Sana’s pretty, blonde friend is looking down at him, concerned. He searches around in his memory for her name, but every time he thinks of her, his memories of Sana overpower and disgusts him how base he must be. He tries to be a good friend, a good man, a good Muslim. He doesn’t drink. He’s never touched anything more than a girl’s shoulder. He works with children so he remembers his duty to make the world a better place for them.

But he’s failed because he’s failed Even, he’s failed his friends and he’s failed his faith. And when he should be worrying about his friends and Even, he’s thinking of Sana, a girl that is much too pure for the likes of him to corrupt.

He should just tell Sana’s friend that no he’s not alright, that he’s actually really messed up, but he needs to feel something other than anger and disgust, so he smiles up at her as slyly as he can, trying not to grimace when she returns it with her own grin. He lets her take his hands into her own. He lets her lead them in a makeshift dance to whatever Jason Derulo song the speakers are pounding out. And when she leans into him, he lets her kiss him too. Because he needs to stop thinking—about Mikael, about Even, and especially about Sana.

He’s not allowed to feel the way he feels about his best friend’s sister, forbidden by more than one force. He can’t be the one responsible for bringing more discord into their group. He’s seen the terrible consequences a crush can have, no matter how innocent.

And if he’s being honest with himself, he could die a thousand heroic deaths and he still wouldn’t deserve Sana.

So he kisses Sana’s pretty friend and tries to lose himself, to feel nothing more than the silky slide of her lips against his own.

But he is young and he is oh so foolish and that night he dreams of a different universe where he is Yousef and she is Sana, and there is nothing more to them than that. She smiles at him the way she smiled in the lamplight, all softness and trust and luminescence. He traces the plane of her cheekbone. She tangles her fingers in his hair. His hand cradles her face. When he puts his lips on hers, she does not push him away.

And again he is reminded of the Turkish sun, not of the uncomfortable heat of it pounding down on his back, but the incandescent beauty with which it illuminated every facet of the green countryside.

She tastes like salvation.

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting in the Skam fandom!


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